


In the End

by WhouffleLover24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Annoyed John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, How Do I Tag, I Tried, M/M, Porn With Plot, Romantic Fluff, Sex, Sherlock Being Annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhouffleLover24/pseuds/WhouffleLover24
Summary: It had been a perfectly perfect Thursday. The sky was blue, the birds were chirping, Mrs. Hudson was baking, and John was sleeping peacefully.That was until John had woken up alone in his and Sherlock's bed.An hour later than he should’ve.





	In the End

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock BBC. Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss do!
> 
> Corrections are welcome! Thank you!
> 
> P.S. If you, for some reason, read this more than once, chances are it's going to be a bit different. I constantly edit my stories, so just be prepared if something changes.
> 
> Warning: Amateur Smut! Seriously. This is my first time writing smut.

 

* * *

 

It had been a perfectly perfect Thursday. The sky was blue, the birds were chirping, Mrs. Hudson was baking, and John was sleeping peacefully.

 

That was until John had woken up alone in Sherlock and John’s bed.

 

An hour later than he should’ve.

 

Why, he did not know, and frankly, didn’t have the time to figure it out. He threw the sheets off himself and hurriedly threw on a random set of clothes that laid in the bathroom and looked decent enough for his work. Unfortunately, in his frenzy of “hurry up and get to work before Sarah fires me”, he slipped on the wet tiles,

 

“Shit!”

A burst of hot, white pain exploded in his left shoulder as it collided with the ground, leaving John paralyzed and gasping for air. Crap! He didn’t have time for this.

 

He stood back up, wincing, and raced out the door of the flat, passing by the dinner table to see his alarm clock crushed into little pieces with Sherlock sitting above it, studying it with scrutiny under a microscope.

 

_So that’s how I woke up late._

 

Half of him wanted to take a few minutes to ask his boyfriend why he had felt the overwhelming urge to take apart his alarm clock when he knew John had work the next day but decided against it because he did not have any minutes to spare. He ran outside glad to find a cab that had happened to drive his way. Climbing into the cab, he all but yelled at the cabbie where to go, checking his watch worriedly. His shift started at 8:30, and it was 8:25.

 

Once the cab arrived, he threw some money he hoped was enough and legged it to his office, pushing past people here and there. If you asked him why he had run in the middle of the hallway instead of against the wall so he could avoid hitting people, he would tell you to piss off but would take your advice. Unfortunately, you were not there to tell him this, so he did run into someone.

 

Who managed to accidentally splash five cups of scalding coffee all over John. Staining his clothes and burning his already hurting shoulder.

 

They tripped over their words, clumsily apologizing, but John ignored them and kept running until he burst into his office; panting, sweating, and his clothes mussed.

 

**8:29:36**

 

The digital clock on the wall blinked the red digits while he collapsed into the wall, sighing with relief. He wouldn’t get told off for being late, a huge boulder he had managed to avoid. Except, that was not the case. As it turns out, being 24 seconds early is still considered late and still deserves a yelling about being on time. It also deserves a scolding on being, ’decent for work,’

 

_(“You’re supposed to help people! How do you think people are going to trust your help looking like a complete wreck! Don’t you know a thing about decency!”)_

 

John slammed his head against his desk. Something told him that he was in for a long day.

___________________________

John wearily sat down in his chair. After a morning of treating a woman who thought she broke her ankle, (but it was just a sprain) a boy with the flu, a girl with a broken arm, and a few cases of the stomach flu (two of which weren’t very pretty), he was certainly looking forward to his lunch break. He stared at the digital clock until it hit 12:15, then closed it with relief. No dealing with any patients, angry bosses, or any angry GPs for another twenty-five minutes.

 

His twenty-five-minute lunch break, in fact, was sadly not even twenty-five minutes. His lunch break was ten minutes since Sarah wanted to introduce John to a brown-haired, man; a new GP from America. It had been filled with awkward introductions and pleasant conversation between the two men. Therefore, when John had walked back to his office to see a new patient, he was in a lighter mood and ready to finish the day with a lighter tone.

 

Nevertheless, the world had other plans for him. Because within two hours, his good mood was crushed; by a thirty-one-year-old male with black slicked hair cradling a broken arm and a severely injured ankle. When John had asked him how he had broken his arm, all he got as an answer of, “I tripped,” and when John asked how he tripped, he got a, “None of your fucking business.” Which John had huffed at and distracted himself with the medical history of the man.

 

_Name: Howard Mossle_

_Age: 31 Years Old_

Wait… Howard Mossle. He had seen that name before. But where?

 

_Howard Mossle, Howard Mossle, Howard Mossle…_

 

The name clicked in his brain; he had seen the name in the case file Sherlock had thrust in his face only last night. (A triple homicide, Sherlock had been thrilled.) But Howard Mossle wasn’t a victim… no, he wasn’t. In fact, Sherlock had been yelling over the phone with Lestrade about how Howard Mossle was the murderer.

 

And Howard Mossle still hadn’t been arrested.

 

He took a physical and mental step away from the man. Usually, he wouldn’t be nervous, he was in the army for god's sake, but he was in a room filled only with medical tools that were useless for self-protection and he had left his gun at home under his pillow,  And even with a broken arm, the man could well kill him right here and now, if he had somehow sneaked in a weapon. After all, you only really needed one arm to shoot a gun. 

 

The man’s low voice brought him back to the situation, “Are you going you help my arm, or are you going to stand there? I don’t got all day.”

 

John jumped into action, pinning the man’s uninjured arm to the nearby wall. (Murderer or not, John wasn’t a police officer, and he would not like to be sued for causing extreme damage to an already broken arm)

 

“Oi! What the hell are you playing at?! Get the bloody hell off!” The man yelled, wriggling against John, trying to get him off. John growled and pinned his legs,

 

“I’m not letting you go till I call the police and the police arrive.”

 

“What the hell do you mean by that?! I ain't done anything wrong!”

 

“Don’t play-” he grunted as the man manage to knee him in the gut, “-don’t play innocent with me. You have murdered three people already and have injured plenty more.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?! You tryin’ to get me framed? Well, let me tell you, you little shit, that I’m innocent, and that you should let go of me before I call the police on you.”

 

“And I’m telling you that you’re lying and if you don’t stop struggling I’ll-”

 

“What in fresh _hell_ are you doing, John?!”

 

John immediately froze and slowly looked up at the doorway, wincing at who it was. It was Elise, another GP he had met five months ago. Another GP who was currently fuming and stalking towards John, “You are pinning an innocent, injured man to the wall!”

 

John reluctantly unpinned Howard and turned to Elise,“But he’s not innocent! This man has murdered three people already, and can murder more-”

 

“I don’t want to hear about crazy murders, John.”

 

“But there have been murders-”

 

Elise scowled at him, “Then you have the wrong guy. If he was a murderer, I’m sure I could tell,” she glared at John, “Go home, John. And don’t bother coming back until tomorrow morning. You better be glad I’m not calling someone to fire you right now.”

 

“Elise, if you would only listen-”

 

“GO. HOME,” Elise pushed him out the door and slammed the door in his face.

 

It wasn’t until John had gotten out of the surgery and onto the sidewalk did it really hit him what he did.

 

_Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot! It might have been just some innocent bloke who had the same name as the murderer! You could get fired! Why the hell did you do that?!_

 

He facepalmed and groaned. The sky -like sensing his mood- lit up with lightning and growled with thunder. It was a mere few seconds later that rain started to pour from the clouds, soaking John and his clothes within seconds. Angrily cursing his luck, he went to the nearest pub. There was no way he was going back in that rain. Walking in and sitting at the empty bar. Not being too much of a day drinker, but also needing a drink after almost getting fired, he settled with a pint of beer. He verbalized his order and looked out the foggy windows in the back of the building, into the pounding rain.

 

The bartender eyed him while he poured the pint of alcohol, “Rough day, eh?”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

The bartender smiled sympathetically and gave John the glass, “There you go, on the house. I know how it is on bad days.”

 

John thanked the man and took the glass willingly, drinking it slowly until the rain stopped about an hour later. He thanked the bartender again and set out back for 221B. When he was three blocks away from it, he felt his mobile buzz.

 

_Please get milk, chicken liver, and a steak. Preferably at the Tesco across London._

_SH_

 

He texted back,

 

_What’s wrong with the Tesco near our flat? Why the one across London? London isn’t actually that small._

_JW_

 

The reply was quick,

 

_Has better quality chicken liver. Also, add chicken organs to the list._

_SH_

 

John groaned and set upon his journey across London to Tesco.

___________________________

It was 9 PM by the time John had finished shopping at Tesco and came back to 221B. Trudging up the stairs with his “groceries” he flung the door open to 221B, only to find that the lights were turned off. John flicked the lights and gaped at the sight.

 

All the furniture was gone. No chairs, no tables, no desks, no lamps, no nothing. Only pictures on the wall, a refrigerator, an unplugged telly, papers scattered around the room, and hopefully a bed.

 

And there in the middle of it all? Sherlock splayed out in the middle of the living room.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“Why the bloody hell is the furniture gone?”

 

Sherlock made an uninterested wave of his hand, “For an experiment.”

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose, “For an experiment? What kind of- You know what, I won’t ask,” John looked back up, “So, do you need the milk, steak, chicken liver and chicken organs that you made me go across London for?”

 

Sherlock hummed, “Yes. Set them in the fridge.”

 

 

"The fridge? You mean the one with the rotting human head and human eyeballs?" John through the bag of food at Sherlock, "Put the damn things in the fridge yourself."

 

He stalked to their bedroom, not bothering to eat or shower. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he shouldn't have snapped at Sherlock (after all, he was used to these things by now) but after the day he had, he couldn't give less of a shit. He stripped out of his stained clothes and laid on the bed, his left shoulder screaming as he rolled to his side, irritated from that morning when he fell in the bathroom. Sighing angrily, he turned on his back and tried to ignore the pain, falling asleep into a dreamless sleep.

___________________________

John woke up again alone in the bed, but unlike that day before, he woke up on time to the ringing of his alarm clock that had appeared back on the floor, surprisingly working. He would have to thank Sherlock for that…

 

Speaking of Sherlock, where was he? He couldn’t hear the violin from the living room or any clatters of equipment.

 

He went to the living room to see Sherlock sitting up on the floor, smiling up at John silently.

 

“What are you smiling about?” John couldn’t help asking. Sherlock didn’t smile unless something extremely exciting happened. Like a triple homicide with the doors locked from the inside and no correlation between the victims.

 

“You’ll see.”

 

John looked at him, perplexed, in the end deciding to turn back to get ready for his work. He stretched his arms and his left shoulder protested angrily, immediately reminding John of the events of the day before. Including pinning a patient to the wall, and almost getting fired. He groaned, he really had to apologize to Elise for that.

 

As he got ready for work, eating breakfast, changing his clothes, combing his hair, and hailing a cab, he thought of ways to apologize for pinning an injured man to the wall. (He really didn’t want to get fired. After all, this helped pay the rent for the flat.)

 

Once he arrives at the surgery, he stepped out to see police cars surrounding the building.

 

_What in the world?_

 

“Hey, John!”

 

A voice caught his attention and he turned to see Lestrade walking up to him, smiling. 

 

"Greg? What are you doing here?"

 

“Wait, Sherlock didn’t tell you?”

 

“Tell me what?”

 

“The man you saw yesterday, Howard Mossle; I heard from your boss that you had pinned him to the wall, accusing him of murder.”

 

John winced internally at the memory, “Yeah, I did. Why?"

 

“As it turns out, he was the one who had committed the three murders.”

 

_Bollocks._

 

He had had a feeling that the man was the murderer. But after getting kicked out by Elise, he hadn’t thought of it as a possibility, “How did you arrest him?”

 

Lestrade continued, “Well, Elise, another GP who said she knew you, wanted to inspect him for any excess damage you might’ve conflicted, when a gun fell out of his pant leg,” Lestrade lifted up a plastic bag with a gun inside, “she and some others who had been watching immediately seized Howard Mossle out and called the Met. Luckily, my team and I were deployed and knew what the murderer looked like. Otherwise, we never could have found him or knew he was the murderer.”

 

John recalled this morning when Sherlock had been smiling. _So that's why, huh?_

 

"So, when did this happen?”

 

“Last night.”

 

“Last night? Why are you still here?”

 

Lestrade sighed, “Howard Mossle had reacted," he paused, " _badly_ to our team.”

 

“Badly like how?”

 

“Injured two people with a stethoscope."

 

“A stethoscope? What kind of damage can you do with that?”

 

“That’s what I thought too. Until he knocked out two nurses."

 

“That’s got to be bloody impossible.”

 

“You would think," Lestrade rubbed his face with his hand, "We sent him to the nearest prison for questioning a few hours ago when he woke up.”

  

John patted Lestrade on the back, “Thanks for telling me mate. And good luck with him.”

 

Lestrade let out a laugh, "Thanks, I think we're going to need it. I've a feeling he's not going to be that cooperative.” Lestrade waved goodbye and got in his police car while John turned to the surgery, a smile spreading across his face.

 

___________________________

 

That day was great at the surgery for John. Well, there were still some difficult patients who had been protesting that they were fine. (Which was, in his opinion, was idiotic. It was their choice to come to the surgery. They came to the surgery, meaning that they weren’t feeling 'fine.')

 

What made that day so great was the fact that Elise had apologized for yelling at him, the American GP that he had met the day before had become incredibly invested in the cases Sherlock and John had solved, the person who had permanently stained his shirt with coffee had gotten him a new shirt, and people kept passing by and smiling at him.

 

When he left the surgery at the end of his shift, he left light-hearted and took a cab to Baker Street. He climbed the stairs to 221B and opened the door to find again, just like the day before, the lights were off. But candles flickered all around the room, giving off a faint, peaceful glow.

 

He managed to make out that all the furniture was still gone, but the couch had been returned to its place against the wall, and all the clutter of Sherlock’s papers were gone. Stepping cautiously forward to investigate the room, he felt something soft under his feet and stopped. He looked down to see a cluster of rose petals that extended into a messy, rosy line, leading into the kitchen.

 

He dropped the new shirt he had in his hand on the ground and followed the line of rose petals into the kitchen, awed at what he saw.

 

The kitchen, like the living room, had its lights off and candles shining brightly. But in the middle of the room, there was a table (he didn’t recognize as theirs), in the middle of the room with two steaming plates of pasta. Sherlock stood in front of him leaning back against the table, wearing a tight purple button-up shirt. The buttons strained against his chest and it made John's throat go dry.

 

”Sherlock?“

 

Sherlock walked over to John and pressed a chaste kiss to John’s lips, ”John,“ he rumbled in a low tone, pulling John closer.

 

John leaned against Sherlock’s chest and hummed, ”What is this all for? Not that I don’t like it, but is this because I helped find the murderer? If it was, this all is a bit-“

 

Sherlock cut him off with another kiss, ”Do you know what today is?“

 

John shook his head, there weren’t any holidays observed in Great Britain, it wasn’t Valentine’s Day, and it wasn’t either of their birthdays.

 

”Today was the day we met. Do you remember that?“

 

John mentally facepalmed and nodded as he remembered all those years ago when he had first met Sherlock at St. Bart’s. Now that he remembered the date of it, he could never forget it. Reaching up to peck Sherlock on the cheek, he whispered in his ear,”That’s so sweet you remembered.“

 

”I won’t ever forget, John. You changed my life.“

 

John smiled back up at him, ”And you changed my life too,“ he pulled away from Sherlock, ”Now why don’t we eat dinner. That pasta looks a lot better than Chinese takeout.“

 

Sherlock laughed and they sat on other sides of the table, eating the pasta with pleasant conversation.

 

After they were pleasantly full with pasta, they had both retreated to the couch, cuddling as _Love_ _Actually_ , (Even if it really was a Christmas film, it was still a good romance film) was playing on the telly, which was now plugged in.

 

”Did you do all these things just when I was gone?“ John asked curiously.

 

”No. I did some pre-preparations last night too; had Molly’s help.“

 

”Molly came last night? But I was here last night, why didn’t I hear her?“

 

”She came at 7 PM.“

 

”7? Wait, I was at Tesco at 7…“ John paused for a few seconds as Sherlock waited for everything to click, ”That’s why you told me to go all away across London? So you had time to pre-prepare things?“

 

John laughed while Sherlock nodded, ”Git.“

 

”That’s why you love me.“

 

”God help me, it is.“

 

They settled into a comfortable silence, watching the film until he felt Sherlock’s fingers massage at John’s left shoulder. John turned his neck around, questioning.

 

”Your shoulder has been hurting.“

  

John blinked, caught a bit off guard by the statement, before wordlessly nodding in confirmation; his shoulder hadn’t quite recovered from the day before. After all, the pain of falling on, and then burning an already wounded shoulder didn’t just disappear overnight.  He had mostly ignored the pain for the day, but now as he relaxed, he actually got a chance to notice the pain.

 

He hummed as he felt Sherlock’s nimble fingers slowly massage his tense muscles into relaxation and leaned into Sherlock sleepily as he felt Sherlock follow his fingers with little kisses that traveled past his shoulder and down his neck. He was on the edge of sleep when he felt Sherlock’s hand slowly move down to his hips and onto his thighs. His eyes popped open and his cheeks burned red while Sherlock’s hand journeyed to his inner thighs. Movie forgotten, he turned and grabbed Sherlock’s upper arms,  hungrily attacking Sherlock with his lips.

 

He climbed into Sherlock’s lap to get better leverage, grounding his hips onto Sherlock’s, taking advantage of the gasp that escaped Sherlock to enter his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, their tongues’ dancing around each other; both men groaning when their tongues touched.

 

They separated for air, Sherlock whispering into John’s ear,

”My room?“

 

John nodded eagerly and they stumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom, clumsily closing and locking the door. Falling onto the bed, John felt Sherlock brush lightly at John’s now-hardening, clothed nipples while sucking and biting not-so-gently at his tanned neck,

“Sh-Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock grinned, and before John knew it, both of their shirts had been carelessly ripped off and thrown across the room. Sherlock kept sucking at John’s hard, pink nipples and palming John’s straining erection through his trousers with his right hand; John’s hips bucked and he peered at Sherlock through his eyelids. Reaching down, John tried desperately to undo Sherlock’s trousers, but Sherlock wasn't having it. He pinned John’s arms above his head and ground his hips against John’s. John’s mind slipped offline, not able to make a coherent thought other than _Sherlock_ and _more_.

 

“Sh-Sherlock _-ngh-_ f _-ah-_ fuck. _Please_.”

 

Sherlock swore under his breath. John looking, John sounding so undone… it made blood shoot right down to Sherlock’s groin. He tossed off John’s trousers and pants, relieving the pressure off of John’s erect cock.

 

Flipping John over, Sherlock brought his fingers to John’s mouth, “Suck.”

 

John sucked eagerly, slicking Sherlock’s long fingers with saliva. Sherlock made a sound of content and slowly entered his slick fingers into John. John arched his back in pleasure as Sherlock gently pushed his finger into John; slowly entering one more finger, scissoring and stretching John.

 

Once John was stretched enough to accept Sherlock’s cock, he experimentally curved his fingers every so slightly, knowing he had brushed John’s prostate when John moaned wantonly against the sheets and let out a stream of curses. Sherlock repeated his action, eliciting louder moans out of John as John's hips twitched helplessly.

 

With new fervor, Sherlock started to brush the sensitive bundle of nerves more and more, relishing in John’s moan as John helplessly gripped the bed sheets, his eyes screwed shut,

 

“Fuckfuckfuck -there, oh- fuckfuckfuck, _Sherlock_.”

 

John whined as he felt Sherlock slip his fingers out. "Oh!"

 

Sherlock licked the pre-cum that leaked out of John's cock, his tongue lapping its slightly salty taste. Sherlock growled, “Oh you’re leaking so much. You’re so eager, aren’t you?”  His fingers ghosted over John's throbbing length. John almost sobbed in frustration and he threw his head back. He _needed_ to come.

 

“ _Please_ Sherlock.”

 

“Please what? What do you want John?” Sherlock let his finger slowly trace up John's hardening length.  John sobbed and thrust his hips into the air, desperately seeking friction,

 

“ _F-fuck_ _me_. I want you to fuck me. _Please_.”

 

“How do you want me to fuck you, John?”

 

“Hard! Rough! O-oh god, anything, just fuck me! Please!” He couldn't help the whine that left his throat and whimpered at how Sherlock moaned. He was being overwhelmed by pleasure and could almost taste his release.

 

Sherlock blindly reached for a condom and lube that had been placed on the bedside drawer from only last week; only now unbuttoning his own trousers and pants, sighing as he felt his erection freed. Tearing open the condom, he rolled it in one smooth motion onto the head of his cock with his hands and slicked it with lube.

 

"Are you ready?"

 

John vigorously nodded his head against the bedsheets, "Yes."

 

Positioning his hips over John, he teasingly leaned his cock right against John’s hole. He let his fingers ghost around it again. John whined and writhed against the bed, “ _Sh-Sherlock_.”

 

Sherlock finally relented, and he slowly, but surely, sank down into John. Allowing John a few moments to adjust to his size.

 

“M-move.”

 

Sherlock lifted his hips up out of John and slammed back in, setting a brutal pace. John’s head and body arched back against the bed, and his eyes screwed shut in ecstasy; shouting every few thrusts as the younger man abused his prostate.

 

It wasn't too long until John felt the tell-tale tightening of his balls and the fast-growing coil in his stomach burn,

 

“Sh-Sherlock- _oh fuck_ \- I’m going t- to-”

 

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s neck, “I know. Come for me. _Love._ " 

 

Hips stuttering and muscles clenching, John screamed Sherlock's name as he came all over the bedsheets and his chest, pleasure exploding in his eyelids. Sherlock followed soon after, groaning _John_ , his arms and legs shaking with the force of his orgasm.

 

They rode their orgasms out, shaking and heaving heavily. Slowly, Sherlock pulled out of John; discarding of the come-filled condom in the wastebasket next to the bed. He cleaned them both up with a nearby washcloth and let the towel fall onto the bedside table.

 

Slipping into the bed with a blissed-out and more-than-satisfied John, they lay next to each other in post-orgasmic bliss; Sherlock whispering sweet nothings into John's hair. He bent his head down to John's ear,

 

“I love you, John.”

 

John hummed and cuddled closer to Sherlock and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “I love you too, Sherlock.”

 

And right then, right before John fell asleep, his mind wandered to the day before. That one bad day, he decided, was most certainly worth it all in the end.

 

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this for the Seventh Anniversary of the airing of A Study in Pink, which was on July 25, 2010. 
> 
> Now, before you go telling me that today is July 28, (or July 29, depending on where you live) let me explain...
> 
> So I've been in Japan for this whole month to visit my family, and basically, the wifi crashed, I didn't have data, then I had to fly on a plane for 11 hours...
> 
> Needless to say, I got home and Jet Lag swallowed me whole... 
> 
> So sorry for the delay...
> 
> I also wrote this based on a day I had last year. Of course, I didn't catch a murderer and I was still single, but what had happened was I had an incredibly bad day to learn that next day most of the things that went bad, turned good. I guess it goes to show that after bad days comes good ones.
> 
> Bye!


End file.
